


Tales of the Greek Heroes

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-07
Updated: 2008-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Gene and a bit of a holiday in the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of the Greek Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **Life On Mars Ficathon 2008**, for this prompt: "Sam/Gene, dancing, sand getting into uncomfortable places".

***

 

_Sun_

 

Gene was sitting at a small taverna, watching the old men at the surrounding tables playing backgammon at an impossible speed. He topped up his glass of retsina and sat back, contemplating the view.

Blue skies tinged pink with the setting sun.

Waves lapping gently against the shore.

Holiday makers strolling along the waterfront.

Sam Tyler in shorts.

All the ingredients one could wish for. In fact, Gene was willing to concede that this had turned out to be an excellent holiday, despite his own dire predictions to the contrary.

Partly, it was the food and drink, which was, by and large, bloody brilliant. Not that he was in a hurry to admit this to Sam; Sam had tried to use this as inducement to come to Crete in the first place, and having declared his firm intention to eat nothing but chips and drink Watney’s Red Barrel, Gene didn’t like to back down completely. He _was_ eating and drinking Greek stuff – but there was no need to admit he actually _liked_ it.

Sam, engrossed in a guidebook, waggled his empty glass in one hand and Gene refilled it, munching on an olive.

They had hired an apartment – another of Sam’s ideas which had turned out to be surprisingly good – which was in a small block owned by a chap called George (Sam said it was Georgios, but Gene resolutely continued to call him George anyway). He had skin like dried leather and could have been anywhere from forty to seventy years old, but he and his wife were friendly and didn’t seem to think anything was odd about him and Sam sharing an apartment, even if it did have only one bedroom.

George also ran the taverna downstairs, which did a cracking line in grilled meat. Gene was somewhat disgruntled to be deprived of bacon butties for two weeks (because no matter how much Sam made those ‘mmm-mmm’ noises, Gene was _not_ eating yoghurt for breakfast. Or at any other time of the day, for that matter). But knowing that he could get a decent steak for dinner almost made up for it.

Gene scoffed down another olive, discarding the stone in the dish, and eyed Sam’s legs stretched out next to him.

That was another great thing about this holiday: Sam wandering around without many clothes on. Not that Gene could act on it – not until they were safely behind doors, anyway – but he could get a very pleasant eyeful in the meantime.

He had noticed Greek blokes touching each other, though. In fact, they seem to always have their arms around one another, and he’d even seen a couple of them holding hands. Sam tried to explain that they weren’t all poofters, and that it was due to ‘cultural differences’ or some such bollocks, but honestly Gene didn’t really care. He and Sam still didn’t touch in public – it would have felt all wrong (and heaven help them if they got too used to it and did the same thing back home), but it did mean that he didn’t feel quite so self-conscious about just the two of them being on holiday together.

“Are you ogling my legs again?” Sam asked in a low voice, his nose still buried in the guidebook.

Gene shrugged. “Passes the time.”

He took a swig of wine and belched before flipping another olive into his mouth.

Sam lowered the book.

“God, it’s like being on holiday with Oliver Reed.”

Gene raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t mind a bit of nuddie wrestling later on, but I draw the line at a log fire in this climate.”

Sam, trying not to grin, chucked the book over to him.

“Come on, then: what do you fancy doing tomorrow?”

 

***

_Sea_

 

Gene had been on seaside holidays before, of course, but always in Britain. And to be fair, although they involved the _seaside_ they didn’t involve all that much of the _sea_. The last time Gene went swimming off the English coast was when he was still a child and the coldness of the water was exciting rather than off-putting. He remembered scrambling about the rocks as Stu showed him how to find cockles, staring in fascination at the pools created by the low tide, his eyes stinging and his skin crusted with salt.

As an adult, his main memories of the beach involved finding the best place to set up the wind-break and chewing his way through sandwiches gritty with the real thing. So not something he looked upon as a treat, if truth be told. Until last year.

They went to Brighton last year, him and Sam. It was their first holiday away together, just for a week. It felt strange at first: no villains to chase, or cases to argue about (although they did still manage to do that, funnily enough). And risky. They had given separate reasons for going away – the team thought that Sam was in London visiting friends – and for the first couple of days Gene found himself looking over his shoulder every now and again, not quite believing that they could do this and get away with it.

But they had.

Since then Sam had moved in as his lodger, following a carefully staged and precisely executed scene in front of witnesses in the Railway Arms. Sam had declared he had finally had enough of his grotty flat, and Gene had grudgingly confessed he was looking for a lodger to help with the bills. No-one seemed too surprised, and Gene wasn’t sure what to make of that. Either the team were all so used to seeing them together that it just seemed normal, or else they weren’t fooling anyone.

So Gene made some joke about Sam stinking out the kitchen by cooking foreign muck, and Sam retaliated with a similar comment in relation to Gene’s socks, and the team laughed, and life had continued much as before. Only better.

This year they hadn’t bothered lying.

 

***

 

_Stone_

 

Not content with lazing on the beach, Sam had insisted on some culture, and dragged Gene off round the ruins at Knossos.

Gene had never really seen the point of looking at ruins. Warwick Castle, now, _that_ was worth seeing. But looking at a big pile of crumbling old stones, where you couldn’t tell which rooms were which, or what they were for, all seemed a bit pointless.

Sam read bits out of the guidebook – something about Minoans and Minotaurs and a chap called Evans – and Gene gazed around, thinking that the sandcastle that kid had been building on the beach yesterday was about as interesting as this.

He realised that Sam had fallen silent, so he turned back to look at him. Sam was staring at a low wall, and as Gene watched he reached out a hand and laid it almost reverently on the sun-warmed stone.

“This is nearly three-and-a-half thousand years old.”

He had that look in his eyes that he sometimes got; the one where Gene didn’t know exactly where he’d gone, but he knew it was a long way from here.

Gene glanced around, seeing the other tourists busy taking photos of each other; no-one was looking their way. Slowly, casually, he reached out and placed his hand over Sam’s. He spoke quietly.

“Puts thirty-three years into perspective, doesn’t it.”

 

***

 

_Spray_

 

“Where’s the bath?”

“What?”

“The bath – you know, that large tub of water you immerse yourself in.”

“Oh, well…there’s a shower.”

“What - you mean that hose pipe contraption?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not a proper shower – where’s the curtain?”

“It doesn’t need one. You just let it spray everywhere and it drains through the hole in the middle of the floor.”

“Doesn’t sound very hygienic to me.”

“It is; it’s great. I’ll show you.”

And he did.

 

After nearly breaking their necks on the slippery tiles (and what a headline _that_ would make), they managed to find a position with Sam pressed up against the sink and Gene pressed up inside him, which worked brilliantly. Gene paused, revelling in the feel of the spray on his skin, and the sight of water running in rivulets down Sam’s back to where their bodies were joined.

He wanted to etch this moment in his memory; preserve it for his old age, or maybe just for a slow, rainy day in Manchester, when he could take it out and savour it all over again.

 

***

 

_Sand_

 

George had turned out to be a grand bloke. They were “Mr. Gene” and “Mr. Gladys” to him, much to Gene’s amusement and Sam’s resigned disgust. George must have overheard them and misunderstood, probably because his English was a bit dodgy. Or that’s what Gene thought. Now having spent one drunken – but relatively coherent - evening with him discussing politics and football, Gene had come to the conclusion that George just had a sly sense of humour.

After their last day at the beach they spent their last night at his taverna. Gene munched his way through some lamb chops while Sam ate some sort of fish, and they fought over the baklava while Sam had Greek coffee and Gene ribbed him for drinking something you had to sieve through your teeth.

And there was dancing. That had been a revelation: Greek blokes danced. _Together_.

Gene wasn’t averse to a bit of a boogie in a nightclub or at a wedding, but this was a completely different kettle of fish. Mind you, once he’d cottoned on to the fact that it mostly involved having your arms around each other and doing some kicking – a bit like a rugby scrum without the violence - then he was fine with that. They had actually joined in last night. Towards the end some young lads with legs bendy like strips of liquorice did a very energetic bit when the music sped up, but by that time he and Sam had collapsed back into their seats, laughing.

Now Sam eyed him across the remains of their food. “You feeling energetic?”

Gene gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes. But not for dancing.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Thought we might have a bit of an early night, seeing as how it’s the last one.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, shifting a little in his chair. “Hmm. You know, I think I’ve still got some sand somewhere…uncomfortable.” He licked his lower lip.

Gene’s gaze turned hot and predatory. “Filthy boy,” he murmured, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Sam tried to look coy. “Might need a hand in the shower.”

“Just a hand?”

“I suppose it would be easier if it was all of you.”

“Daresay I could manage that.”

“How kind.”

“Well, can’t have you sitting on a plane with sand stuck in your unmentionables.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

“That’s the sort of man I am.”

And they grinned at each other as they waited for the bill, savouring the last of the wine and the rightness of the moment, as the music and the laughter drifted out on the warm night air.

 

END

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> If the title looks familiar, that’s because its taken from a children’s book by Roger Lancelyn Green. At the other end of the ‘mature content’ scale, the Oliver Reed movie that Gene refers to is ‘Women in Love’(1969, dir. Ken Russell).


End file.
